Family Ties
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Pieta". Boyd is sure he's being followed, but what he eventually learns has the potential to change his life forever. COMPLETE. T for language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

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_**This one's dedicated to Never Stop Believing In Love** - 'cos sometimes minds think alike whether they're great or not... and a while back we both managed to have exactly the same idea at the same time, lol! Shame it's taken me so very long to get round to uploading my take on it. ;)_

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**Family Ties**

_by Joodiff_

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**Autumn 2008**

It's just a fleeting glimpse he catches through the steadily-building morning traffic, but Boyd is absolutely certain it's the same girl. Small, scruffy, sharp-featured and incredibly pale beneath a long, dark fringe. He halts without thinking, hands momentarily braced on hips as he breathes heavily and attempts to scan the opposite side of the road through the brief gaps between the rapidly passing vehicles. No sign of her. He spots a few other people, yes, other early-risers like himself – but not that slim, accusing figure. Frowning, he waits, and then takes the first halfway decent opportunity to dart quickly across the road. Still no sign of her. Boyd shakes his head slightly, more in frustration than anything else, and after a final exasperated glance round, he reluctantly forces himself back into a steady lope along the chilly street.

It's a bad-tempered nod towards something, this self-inflicted purgatory he's taken to putting himself through three times a week. A grudging acknowledgement, maybe, that perhaps there's something in the dire warnings of his sister-in-law after all. She's a doctor, a highly respected GP, and every time their paths cross at family functions she's singularly unafraid to loudly point out that he's the wrong side of fifty-five, drinks far too much, works far too hard for far too many hours and is stressed up to his eyeballs most of the time. In her professional opinion he's heading straight for the inevitable heart-attack and early grave unless he substantially mends his ways, and Boyd is finally beginning to suspect that she's right. So here he is, irritably slogging his way back towards his street, his house and his shower, most of his mind already focused on the hundred and one things he's somehow got to fit into the working day ahead of him.

He doesn't entirely forget the girl. She's there on the edge of his consciousness, an annoying, nagging question that sooner or later he's going to find an answer to. He keeps seeing her. He's certain he keeps seeing her. Not on a daily basis, of course, but fairly regularly. Never much more than a quick glimpse before she hurries away or he's distracted, but he's sure it's the same girl every single time. Late teens, maybe, or very early twenties. Hollow-looking, almost spectral. Boyd is far too prosaic to imagine she's some kind of figment of his imagination, but the way he keeps catching sight of her is beginning to unnerve him. He simply doesn't believe in that kind of coincidence.

His phone starts to ring in his pocket, a loud, imperative summons that sounds far too shrill in the thin quiet of the early morning. Not altogether unwillingly, Boyd stops again to answer it. His pulse is a little too fast, but he's hardly gasping for breath. Still, he takes a moment to try to slow his heartbeat and steady his breathing. He does not want to explain to anyone why he's panting slightly at such an unforgivably early hour of the morning. Tragically, the inevitable speculation that would arise would probably do his reputation a lot less harm than the bald truth – a fact that's only reinforced when he sees the name of his caller. He simply doesn't need the ribald comments his new regime will inevitably bring from his junior colleagues when – _if_ – they find out what he's up to.

Raising the phone, he says gruffly, "Spence."

"Sir," his subordinate's voice says. "Sorry to call so early, but…"

Boyd has learned to be very wary of anything that comes prefaced with such words. No-one ever delivers good news in such a manner. He listens, he grunts and he mentally rearranges his entire day. At length, he says, "Call Eve. Tell her to pick up her stuff and meet us there."

"Sir," Spencer Jordan says again. "Do you want me to get hold of Grace, too?"

"I'll speak to Grace," Boyd tells him. "Just get there before CID get bored and screw things up for us. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Ending the call, he unconsciously glances around again. No mysterious young woman anywhere in sight. Good. Once again he forces himself back into a steady jog, but now he's moving with a real sense of purpose.

-oOo-

It may not come naturally to him, but Boyd has become reasonably adept at the art of multi-tasking over the years. Accordingly, he's just about able to simultaneously button his shirt, fill the kettle and make a telephone call without any major disasters occurring. He feels a distinct twinge of ignoble self-satisfaction when it becomes abundantly clear to him that he's far more alert and awake than the woman he's talking to. A touch of sadistic mischief makes him say gravely, "Oh, I don't know, Grace. Some of us have been up and about for hours."

Her succinct reply is not repeatable in polite company. It's followed by, "Oh, God. You've been out running again, haven't you? We really should talk about this new obsession of yours, Boyd. At our age too much energy really is a bad thing."

He can't help grinning slightly. "'At _our_ age'?"

"Moving swiftly on," her voice says, but he doesn't miss the note of dry amusement she simply doesn't bother to hide. "So why exactly do I have to join you out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Context," Boyd says promptly, one step ahead of her. "Also, I know how fond you are of truly spectacular examples of dismemberment."

Her answering groan is perfectly audible. "If I didn't already know the answer, I'd ask if this is really your idea of showing a girl a good time."

"Depends on the girl," he tells her. "I'm picking you up in half an hour, ready or not, so get a bloody move on."

The muttered curses Grace calls down on his head in response simply amuse him. Boyd thinks about that in a mild sort of way as he prepares to leave the house. There's no doubt that their long and tumultuous relationship is firmly back on track after a strained period of extended frost and perhaps it's that more than any other single thing that's helped him blunder his way through the darkest days of the last few months and finally stumble back into the real world where not everything revolves around the untimely death of one young man. The only thing that actually surprised Boyd about the quiet support she offered in the worst days was its simplicity. No long words, no lectures on the psychology of his grief, just companionship when he needed it and solitude when he didn't. He realises now that Grace Foley understands him far better than he's ever imagined, and probably always has.

Today is not a day for introspection, however. As ever, there's far much to do and not nearly enough time to do it in. Boyd grabs his long coat, his briefcase and his laptop and juggles them with his keys as he makes his way back outside. The sun is a little higher in the sky now, and the stinging early morning chill has gone from the air. As he locks the door and heads down the steps towards his car, Boyd is, if not exactly bursting with optimism, at least in a state of reasonable equanimity. It lasts until he sees the girl watching him from the other side of the road.

For a brief moment they make eye contact and then she turns and runs. Boyd's instinct is to give chase – of course it is – but he's heavily encumbered, and his responsibilities lie elsewhere. He goes out onto the pavement, though, and sees her just disappearing from view. Frustrated, he swears to himself and turns back to his car.

-oOo-

"You're very jumpy today," Grace observes much later as he drives them back towards CCHQ from the cordoned-off crime-scene. "Is anything wrong?"

"No," Boyd says automatically. He's not even sure why he bothers with the denial. Even if she wasn't a trusted colleague and one of his closest personal friends, Grace certainly possesses the ability to see straight through just about any lie he's likely to tell her. They just know each other far too well to be able to get away with that kind of easy deception. Keeping his gaze firmly on the road ahead, he gruffly admits, "There's this girl – "

She groans before he can say anything else. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Frowning, he says, "What? No, not like that. For God's sake, when do I ever have the time…? No, I keep seeing this girl. Tiny, scrawny little thing. Looks half-starved."

Grace also frowns. "Really? Well, when you say you keep seeing her…"

"I mean," Boyd says patiently, "I _keep_ seeing her. Twice so far today. When I left the house, there she was on the other side of the road, just standing there staring at me."

"And you don't recognise her at all?"

He shakes his head perfunctorily. "I don't think so. She's just a kid, Grace."

"Street kid?"

Boyd hears the delicate undertone in her voice but doesn't question it. He shrugs slightly, "Could be."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Try to have a word with her, I suppose."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Grace responds with a sigh.

Frowning, he says, "Oh, give me credit. I'm not intending to frighten the life out of her."

"Not intentionally, anyway. Just… try to be a bit… diplomatic. Tactful."

He gives her a look. "Tactful?"

"It's a concept I'd be happy to attempt to explain to you over dinner this evening."

His spirits lifting a little, Boyd asks in amusement, "Are you propositioning me, Grace?"

"In your dreams, Boyd," she says with a deliberately sweet smile.

-oOo-

In the event, it's three days before Boyd sees the girl again, and when he does she's standing outside his house looking up at it with a closed, mistrustful expression on her face. It's Sunday, it's early afternoon, and he's trying to make a serious executive decision between football on the television and motivating himself to at least survey the grass in the back garden if not actually mow it. The siren song of football and a couple of bottles of beer is definitely winning when he glances out of the window and there she is. Boyd sees her, she does not see Boyd. It gives him his first good opportunity to study her properly. Definitely young, definitely a little malnourished. Hard-edged in a very brittle sort of way. Instinct, experience and training all tell him one thing – addict. Inevitably, the knowledge takes Boyd to a very painful place indeed, and for a long time he simply stands stock still at the edge of the window, watching her.

In the end, he settles on the direct approach. He thinks that perhaps he doesn't look quite so intimidating in his faded old jeans and his stretched, baggy rugby shirt. Maybe he just looks like someone's dad. A thought that brings a fresh spike of pain, but one he banishes quickly. If the girl… But it's pointless to speculate. She could be anyone. London's full of addicts, not all of them living under bridges and sleeping rough in shop doorways. Picking up his house keys, Boyd steps out onto the top step beyond the front door and halts, burying his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. He doesn't move, and neither does she. For a long, long moment they simply regard each other warily.

He pitches his voice carefully, loud enough for her to hear him quite clearly, soft enough not to be a challenging bark. "Well? Do you want to talk to me, or are you just going to run away again?"

She looks undecided, but very much as if she's likely to bolt at any second. Boyd doesn't move, keeps his hands firmly in his pockets, hoping to project an air of nonchalance that might help disarm her. Just as he's certain she's going to take off without a word, she says grudgingly, "You're Luke's dad."

It's not a question. Nor is it – quite – an accusation. It's a statement, unwilling delivered and painfully received. Boyd bites back his immediate, impulsive reply. It costs him, but the reply he gives is measured. "Yes."

"Old Bill," she adds, the edge of contempt very clear.

He doesn't rise to the implicit challenge. "Yes."

"You're in charge of that special unit that investigates unsolved crimes."

Boyd risks descending the stone steps, but halts at the bottom. There's perhaps only fifteen feet between them now, and he senses that anything less will break the tentative line of communication. She's watching him intently, quite evidently ready to run if he tries to get any closer to her. He says, "Is that what you want to talk to me about? An unsolved crime?"

For the first time her expression changes slightly. A ghost of a smile flits across her face but is quickly lost. "No."

"You knew my son?"

"Yeah," she agrees. He's about to push her again when she continues, "Can I trust you?"

The direct question surprises him. Boyd shrugs deliberately. "I suppose that depends."

"Good answer," she says. "Your name's Peter, yeah?"

Something about the way she says it amuses Boyd. Here she is on the edge of his driveway, a tiny, scruffy girl in shabby clothes, and he can feel, quite plainly, the angry bristling defiance in her. He nods. "Yeah. So… are you going to tell me who the hell you are?"

For a moment she studies him with a very flat sort of gaze. It takes her several long seconds to finally say, "Amy."

Boyd waits, but it seems she isn't intending to provide any further information. Struggling for patience, he says, "What do you want, Amy? You've been hanging round for a while."

"Can we talk?" Amy asks him. "I mean, go somewhere and talk? The park, maybe?"

He doesn't reply immediately, but Boyd is intrigued despite himself. He shrugs again. "All right. Wait there. I'll get my jacket."

-oOo-

Amy won't be drawn. In a way, Boyd admires that. She tells him absolutely nothing during the short walk to the park, nothing at all about herself or what it is she wants from him. She walks determinedly with her head well down and her hands stuffed into the pockets of her thin denim jacket. Long dark hair, grey eyes, very pale skin. Multiple piercings in one ear, just the one in the other. Boyd notices all the little things, just as he's trained to do, but he keeps his observations to himself. Pretty girl, though – in a wistful, haunted sort of way. He wonders about her life, wonders if there's anyone in the world who cares about her, wonders if there's anyone questioning where she is or what she's doing.

Seemingly at random she selects a bench in sight of the children's playground and perches herself on the very edge of it, skinny arms folded tightly across her body. Boyd sits down a calculated distance from her, his own posture unconsciously mimicking hers. Not looking at her, he asks, "Runaway?"

"Yeah, originally. Never knew my dad and my mum was always more interested in her latest boyfriend than in me. Don't get any ideas about trying to drag me back home – I'm twenty-one."

She doesn't look it, but Boyd believes her. There's just something about the hard lines of experience written on her thin face that tells him she's already seen and done much, much more than most. Already knowing the answer, he inquires, "Would you go back if you could?"

"No," she says simply. "Luke said… he said you were a pretty decent bloke really. Just that the pair of you never saw eye-to-eye."

Boyd thinks it's because he expects it that the swell of pain is not as unbearable as it could be. "That's one way of looking at it."

"Middle-class copper; nice house in a nice street. Having a junkie for a son was a bit of an embarrassment, I guess."

Her words sting. A little too brusquely, he asks, "What do you want, Amy?"

"I need help," she says simply. "Got myself in a bit of trouble. Got no money, no friends… no family that would help even if I asked them. Luke said… he said…"

Boyd sighs heavily and looks up at the afternoon sky. A pale, insipid sky, washed out and uninspiring. Quietly, he says, "I can't help you."

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her look at him sharply. There's a bitter note in her voice as she says, "You know what, I knew this was a stupid idea. You're just like everyone else, aren't you? You look at people and you make assumptions. You've already made your mind up about me, haven't you? Did you ever stop to think about what it was about you that your son hated so much, _Peter_…?"

She spits his name with so much vehemence that Boyd actually flinches. She's already on her feet when he snags her wrist roughly. There's nothing of her. Just skin and bone. Amy whips round, glaring at him, but before she can say anything he uses his other hand to push up the sleeve of her jacket and that of the threadbare sweater beneath. Her expression is hard and challenging. There's evidence of scarring, yes, but no sign of fresh track marks. Cold contempt joins the bitterness in her tone as she says, "Yeah, I'm clean. Surprise, surprise. Happy now?"

Boyd doesn't release his grip. "You want my help? Then start talking."

Amy studies him with a cool composure he finds mildly disconcerting. Eventually she says, "I managed to get out of the hostel where I was staying and into a flat six months ago. Place is a dump, but it's a roof over our heads."

He doesn't miss the deliberate stress she puts on the pronoun. Not knowing why he's faintly surprised, he asks, "You're with someone?"

She gives him another long, intense look. "Yeah, I was. For a while. He died."

And Boyd knows. He just knows. Quietly, he says, "Luke."

"Luke," she agrees, just as quiet. "But I was talking about my son. Your grandson."

-oOo-

She's right, the place is a dump. One single room and a tiny, mildew-covered bathroom. Ground floor, with a depressingly clear view of a breathtakingly ugly concrete flyover covered in spray-painted graffiti. Boyd can smell the damp that permeates the walls. The paint is peeling, the carpet is old, stained and frayed and what little furniture there is seems to have been begged, borrowed or stolen from a much earlier decade. There's a cheap microwave on the scarred kitchen units wedged into one corner, and there's a small television by the window, but not much sign of any other kind of luxury. One single bed, one battered child's cot at the end of it. A few bright, cheap toys; a couple of books and magazines. Some washing hanging limply on an elderly and unstable-looking clothes airer. A soul-destroying sort of place. Boyd's seen worse – much worse – but if Amy's telling him the truth…

Strangely, it's something he's never considered. Not once in all the long years of searching and hoping, not before or after his son's death. Little Luke, the boisterous, football-mad boy who grew into a sullen, withdrawn teenager and then simply disappeared in the wake of a bitter argument about something utterly trivial. Little Luke, who grew into a man while living rough on the streets. Boyd almost shakes his head at his own naiveté – it seems ridiculous to him now that this… situation… is a possibility he never once considered. Yet, there's something cynical in him, something sceptical; something that isn't altogether convinced he's not being played for a fool.

The sound of a key in the lock makes him turn, and the door out into the communal hall opens. Amy, of course, but not just Amy. Now she has a young child riding on her hip, and even the very first glimpse tears into Boyd with brutal, agonising force. Head and heart pull in opposite directions as he simply stares at the solemn little boy clinging to Amy. Very fair – just as Luke was as a small boy, just as he himself was, in fact. Fair and dark-eyed. The absolute image of Luke at the same age. It hurts. It hurts more than Boyd would ever have believed possible.

Amy closes the door quietly and steps forward, something in her expression telling Boyd that she senses his sudden mistrust. She says, "Joshua James."

"James," he repeats stupidly.

"After Luke's – "

" – grandfather," he finishes for her. "My father."

"Yeah," she says. She smiles at her son – the first time Boyd has seen such an open unaffected look on her face – and she says, "Look, Joshie. It's your grandpa come to see you."

It hurts so damned much. Boyd wants to run, wants to bolt away and never look back. Instead, he takes a slow step forward, reaches out hesitantly. Large dark eyes regard him with shy, innocent curiosity. Some primal instinct deep inside him recognises the truth. This is his flesh and blood.

Amy says, "I'm not stupid. I know you can have tests and stuff done."

"Y chromosome analysis," Boyd responds expressionlessly, barely aware of forming the words.

"Whatever," she says impatiently. "Do what you want, I've got nothing to hide. I know he's Luke's. There's no chance at all that he's anyone else's."

Years of experience tell him she's speaking the truth. Or… perhaps the truth as she believes it. Boyd knows the sort of life she's been living. Maybe there are things she doesn't recall, things that happened when she was too wasted, too stoned to remember. But part of him already knows he's being an idiot. He sees Luke – and himself – quite clearly in the little boy Amy's holding onto so tightly. He clears his throat. "What do you need?"

"No," she says, startling him. "You get your tests done, and then we'll talk."

"Amy – "

"I've got a record," she says, the defiance plain in her grey eyes. "Drug offences, mainly. A couple of counts of shoplifting; drunk and disorderly. Stupid stuff. You're gonna find out sooner or later, aren't you? My name's Amy Ruth Howard, I was born in Colchester in 'eighty-seven. You go away, and you do whatever you need to do, _Detective Superintendent_. But you better do it quickly."

She could be bluffing, but Boyd doesn't think so. He makes a decision. "I need to get something from my car."

For a moment she looks afraid. "What are you going to do?"

He stares at her, surprised by how scared she suddenly appears. "Nothing you need to be frightened about. Christ… what sort of a man do you think I am?"

Amy shakes her head. "I don't know. I'm hoping you're exactly the sort of man Luke said you were – hard as bloody nails, but sound."

Boyd sighs. Summoning every ounce of patience, he says quietly, "I'll take a cheek swab from Joshua – it'll be quick and painless. I'll get a DNA test done by my forensics people. Then maybe we can start trusting each other a bit, hmm?"

"I'm not lying to you."

He believes her. Deep in his heart, Boyd already knows that science will verify every word she's told him.

-oOo-

Less than twenty-four hours later, and there's more than a touch of waspish impatience in the voice that calls out sharply, "Boyd…!"

Barrelling past her open office door, he waves her off. "Later, Grace."

"No," she calls after him, the sting in her tone even more evident. "Not later. _Now_. Stop right there."

Sometimes it entertains him, the way she so often treats him like a disobedient child. This is not one of those times. Yet Boyd stops despite himself, too aware of the amused looks passing between Stella and Spencer behind his back. Damn the wretched woman. He turns slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity and command. Grace is at her door now, her expression as exasperated as her voice. He glares at her. "I'm busy."

"We're all busy," she says tersely. "Have you read the post mortem report on the Thamesmead body?"

"Body _parts_," he pedantically corrects her. "I'm getting to it, Grace. I'm getting to it."

"When?" Grace asks in a very pointed manner. "Today? Tomorrow? When?"

"For God's sake, the poor bastard's been dead more than five years, another few hours isn't going to matter, is it?"

She frowns at him, evidently surprised by his reaction. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Boyd says defensively. Less harshly, he adds, "I'm just run off my feet this morning. Give me twenty minutes, and I'm all yours."

Her eyebrows quirk at him. "Really?"

"Metaphorically."

"Disappointing," Grace says, deadpan.

He can't help giving her a weary grin. "Be careful what you wish for, Grace. One day. One day."

"And on that day…" she says, playing along.

"Twenty minutes," he tells her again, starting back into motion. Pure devilment makes him wink at her. She rolls her eyes in response. Theatrically.

-oOo-

"Y chromosome analysis," he says, placing the two small, clear evidence bags down on the workbench. "All I need to know is whether or not there's a genetic link between the individuals these two swabs came from."

Eve looks up at him. There's something very sardonic about the way she says, "Oh, well, if that's _all _you need…"

"And I need the answer yesterday."

"Don't you always?" Eve says. She pokes the nearest of the two bags with her pen. "Boyd, there's no crime number on either of these."

"I know," Boyd admits. He gestures vaguely. "I don't want a full profile, and I don't want them run against the database. I just want a straight answer – is there a familial relationship, yes or no."

"Oh, come on," she says as she straightens up to look at him properly. "You're asking me to walk through an ethical minefield here."

"What's the problem with checking two completely anonymous samples against each other?"

"The problem is that you presumably know who and what they pertain to, and I – "

"I don't need the lecture, Eve; just do it, will you?" Boyd growls at her, his patience beginning to ebb.

She asks tightly, "On your authorisation?"

"On my authorisation."

Eve does not look convinced. "I'll still have to log the samples in."

"I don't care what you do, just get me an answer to the question as soon as you can."

"Boyd, I'm not happy about – "

Ignoring her protests, he says, "And bring me up to speed on the Thamesmead dismemberment…"

-oOo-

It's partly his ability to absorb and process information very quickly that makes him so good at his job. By the time Boyd reaches Grace's office again he's fairly sure he knows enough about the butchered remains of the young man found behind the stud wall in an abandoned factory office in Thamesmead to be able to hold his own in the conversation she apparently wants to have with him about the case. In fact, he thrives on the kind of intense pressure trying to deal with so many things simultaneously brings to bear on him, and he strides into her office with an unnecessarily loud, "Jigsaw-man. White male, mid-twenties, cause of death presumed to be exsanguination related to multiple stab wounds."

Grace visibly jumps and looks up to glare balefully at him. "What _is_ the matter with you today? You're all over the place."

He collapses onto her couch and stretches his legs out in front of him. "Talk to me about ritual dismemberment."

"Not until you tell me why you're bouncing off the bloody walls."

"Could be something, could be nothing, Grace."

"Cryptic really doesn't suit you, Boyd."

"Ritual dismemberment," he prompts her again.

He listens, but as he does so he's thinking about the samples in the lab, too. A swab taken from Joshua and a swab from his own cheek for direct comparison. He thinks about the results and what they will mean if the answer is what he expects. Thinks about the improbability of losing a son and gaining a grandson within the space of just a few months. The child of _his_ child. The only child of his only child. Boyd realises abruptly that Grace is staring at him with her eyebrows sharply raised. Evidently he's missed something important. She says frostily, "Could you at least pretend to be listening?"

"I am listening," Boyd tells her, which is broadly true. He's listening, he's just not consciously taking in most of what she's saying. For a moment he's tempted to simply tell her about the preceding day's events, but something – maybe the tiniest lingering touch of doubt – stops him. He will tell her. Of course he will – she's one of his closest friends. But not just yet. "It's a cult thing."

"That's the best you can do?"

"That's what you've just been telling me. It's – or could be – a cult thing."

"And…?"

He falls back on a disarming smile. "There's an 'and'?"

"Go away," Grace tells him brusquely. "I'm busy and I'm not wasting any more of my time trying to deal with you when you're like this."

Boyd takes the dismissal as it's intended – with wry good-humour. In fact he's still smiling slightly to himself when Stella intercepts him in the squad room, a printed sheet of paper in her hand. "Sir? The stuff you wanted on Amy Howard…?"

"Tell me," he says, heading rapidly for his office with Stella at his heels.

"All minor stuff – possession, shoplifting, vagrancy. No custodial sentences. Last arrest was over two years ago. No fixed address at the time."

"Anything else?"

"No, sir."

He takes the sheet from her. "Thanks, Stella. How's Spence doing with jigsaw-man?"

"Still unidentified."

Boyd grunts in acknowledgement and settles behind his desk. He waits until his subordinate has departed and closed the door behind her before turning to face his computer screen.

-oOo-

The call from the lab comes much earlier than he could realistically have hoped for. In fact, it comes at a little past nine the following evening, long after most of his colleagues have quietly disappeared for the night. Forcing a calm he most definitely doesn't feel as he sees the caller's identity appear on the small display, he answers with a succinct, "Boyd."

"I'm guessing you want the short answer?" Eve's voice says.

A clammy chill momentarily overtakes him as he asks, "They're related?"

"Indisputably. I've matched the loci – "

Boyd shakes his head. "Don't bother with the details for now. You're absolutely certain they're related?"

"Absolutely," Eve confirms. "No doubt about it. The analysis shows a couple of very minor mutations that are well within expected parameters, but the two individuals are closely related. Father and son, maybe."

"Grandfather and grandson?"

"Just as likely. So what do you want me to do now?"

"Nothing, just email me the results," Boyd tells her.

"And the samples?"

"Store 'em for now. I've got what I needed."

"I'm still not happy about any of this, Boyd," she says reproachfully.

"I know. Thanks, Eve."

Her farewell is curt and disgruntled, but Boyd is barely aware of it. He leans back in his chair and tries to absorb the news. It's not an abstract, speculative thing, not any more. Joshua James Howard is his grandson. Luke's son. The reality hits him like an oncoming truck and it brings with it a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Not least of which is a sharp surge of grief and pain. For a moment Boyd remains totally still, letting his thoughts race and his emotions swirl, and then he stands up decisively. He lets instinct alone drive him, and within minutes he's heading for his car.

-oOo-

Unsurprisingly, given the late hour, Amy doesn't seem particularly pleased to see him. In fact, her reaction to his presence at her door is bordering on the overtly hostile as she demands, "What do you want?"

It doesn't fluster him. Boyd says, "You asked for my help."

He sees comprehension dawn in her grey eyes. Her slight smile is cool and sardonic. "That was bloody quick. What did you do, Detective Superintendent? Stick a rocket up someone's arse?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Told you he was Luke's."

He's not too proud to nod in agreement. "You did."

"Come in," Amy says abruptly. "But keep the noise down – Josh is asleep."

Boyd is drawn across the shabby room to the cot at the foot of the bed almost against his will, and the way his chest tightens as he looks down at the small sleeping child is very real indeed. Quietly, he says, "I knew. I knew the moment I saw him."

"Yeah, I know you did," Amy says with a shrug, appearing at his shoulder. "I don't blame you, though. For getting a test done, I mean. No-one trusts an ex-junkie, right?"

Boyd ignores the gibe. He gazes down, absently reflecting that it won't be long before the boy has comprehensively outgrown his current limited sleeping arrangements. Still looking at Joshua, he says, "Luke's name's not on the birth certificate."

"He thought you'd be able to trace him if it was," Amy admits, motioning him to step away from the cot. Sitting down on the old, sagging couch that acts as a room divider, she asks quietly, "So what happens now?"

Helping himself to the room's only chair, Boyd says, "I think we need to talk about what's best for Joshua."

Amy bristles immediately. Her tone is low and fierce as she instantly replies, "I'm not giving him up, if that's what you mean."

Boyd frowns. "That's _not_ what I mean. Jesus, Amy… What sort of monster did Luke make me out to be?"

Her expression softens a little. "He never made you out to be any sort of monster."

He snorts disparagingly, but it's not a topic of conversation he's going to pursue with her. At least, not yet. With a sigh, he suggests, "Look, why don't you tell me exactly what you need, and we'll go from there?"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Boyd confirms.

Amy stares at him. "Why?"

"Why do you bloody think? Joshua's the only piece of my son I've got left."

Still looking sceptical, she says tartly, "And just how nice am I gonna have to be to you, Pete?"

Stung by the implication, Boyd glares at her incredulously. "You're not serious? Oh, for fuck's sake…"

"Whoa," she says, holding up her hands. "Hold on there, big guy. Don't you lose your temper with me. And don't start shouting the odds either, or you'll wake him up."

She's so tiny, and so bold; so completely fearless. He likes her. Boyd realises it immediately, and despite himself he chuckles softly, wryly. Amy gives him a distinctly askance look and in response he says, "You'd get on so well with a good friend of mine."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," he tells her, picturing her with Grace. "She's a bit of a spitfire, too, when it suits her. God knows what you'd be able to push me into between you."

Amy smirks abruptly. "'She'?"

Boyd ignores the clear innuendo in her tone. "What do you need? Right now, I mean?"

"Cash. But you're not going to give me money, are you?"

He studies her for a long moment, and then he folds his arms and says, "When my father – James – died, he left me his watch. Good Swiss watch. Gold. Luke was living with his mother in the week and staying with me at the weekends at the time. He must've been, what, thirteen or fourteen. And one weekend that watch just vanished out of the drawer in my bedroom."

Amy snorts. "Guess what, that sort of thing happens when there's a junkie in the family."

"He pawned it," Boyd says quietly. "He pawned it to get the money to buy his mother a birthday present because he didn't think I'd give him the money if he just asked me for it. He had a plan all worked out – he'd even got himself a job at a supermarket a couple of nights a week after school to save up the money to get it back."

"I guess you're trying to make a point, are you?"

"I guess I am," Boyd tells her. "A point about assumptions. You accused me of making them about you – but haven't you done exactly the same about me? You can't see past the warrant card and the fancy title, can you? Newsflash, Amy – "

" – God, _no-one_ says that anymore – "

" – nothing and no-one's ever as straightforward as you think."

"Great speech, Pete."

He glowers at her as he reaches for his wallet. "And don't call me _Pete_."

-oOo-

Boyd goes through the next few days in a confused blur of thoughts, emotions and responsibilities. Several times he comes close to opening up to Grace, but baulks at the idea at the last minute. He's not entirely sure he's doing the right thing getting to know Amy and Joshua, nor does he think he's ready for the sheer volume of advice that will very definitely come his way once Grace is apprised of the situation. He tries to tell himself the whole matter is nothing at all to do with her – or with anyone else – but the words don't really ring true. There simply isn't anyone else in the world as close to him as Grace – not anymore. Nor is there anyone he'd rather share his momentous news with. Yet still he hesitates.

The weekend arrives, and with it a whole raft of new opportunities to get to know his grandson, and as the little boy's initial shyness retreats so Boyd fancies he can see even more of Luke – and himself – in him. The same quiet determination which will undoubtedly evolve into sheer bloody-minded stubbornness; the same quick temper – fast to rise, just as fast to cool. The boy's bright, too, and a definite credit to his young mother in very many ways. Amy, for her part, is indulgent towards them both in a world-weary sort of way that belongs to someone far, far older. Boyd definitely likes her – he likes her spirit, her courage and her moments of sharp audacity. Strangely, she seems to like him, too, and he finds that more than a little difficult to come to terms with.

"I've found you a flat," he announces on the Sunday. "Helluva lot better than this shithole."

"Where?" Amy asks him warily.

"Lewisham."

She glares in response. "What, so you can keep an eye on me more easily?"

"No, so you don't die of bloody hypothermia when the winter comes."

"Great. So now you're trying to run my life for me, huh? Didn't take you long, did it?"

Boyd gestures pointedly around the room. "You really want to carry on living here?"

"That's not really the point, is it?" Amy says sharply. "Back off, Pete."

He winces, but doesn't bother to challenge her. Challenging her only seems to encourage her. Which he understands, even if he won't ever admit as much. His gaze on Joshua, who's playing quietly on the floor, Boyd says, "It's just the way I'm used to doing things. Quick, decisive."

"Control freak," she accuses.

Boyd starts to laugh. He doesn't really know why, he just does, and after a moment Amy joins in. Incongruous it may very well be, but even after such a short acquaintanceship they do genuinely like each other.

-oOo-

"It wasn't about you," she says solemnly, much later on. "Not really. Lots of kids come from broken homes and they don't all run away."

Boyd is on the couch, Joshua dozing on his lap. Maybe it's the boy's presence that makes it easier than normal to talk about all the things that still hurt so very much. Absently stroking the short, fair hair, he says, "His mother always said I was far too hard on him."

"And were you?"

Boyd considers carefully before he answers with, "I don't think I was, not really. I just… made some pretty bad mistakes with him, that's all."

"Tough love," she suggests.

"If you like."

"Didn't work, did it?"

"Evidently not," he says wryly.

Amy looks at him contemplatively for a few moments before saying, "You know what the trouble really was? You were too alike."

Boyd shakes his head. "Luke took after his mother. Highly-strung. Very sensitive."

"Well, he certainly had your temper. He'd get angry and then he'd lash out."

Appalled, Boyd asks, "He hit you? Luke hit you?"

She shrugs casually. "A couple of times when he was off his head, yeah. It was nothing."

"Jesus…"

"Now you're doing the police officer thing. Judgemental."

Bridling, he says, "I'm not judgemental."

Amy laughs, short and harsh. "Oh, you bloody _are_. Life isn't simple, Pete. You live by your book of rules and regulations, and that's fine for you, but the rest of us just muddle by the best way we can."

Boyd gives her a look. "And you're quite happy with that, are you…?"

-oOo-

"Because," Boyd says patiently, several days later, "it's the kind of conversation that requires a drink, Grace."

The suspicion is clear in her blue eyes. "Why do I think I'm not going to like this? What have you done, Boyd?"

"You have such a high opinion of me," he complains, joining her on the low couch set against the semi-glazed partition that divides his office from hers, and setting the bottle on the floor. "What makes you think I've done anything?"

"Well, for a start you've been… weird… for days now. Weirder than usual, I mean."

"'Weird'? Is that a technical term, Doctor Foley?"

"It is in your case," Grace says, taking a sip of her drink.

"I'm hurt."

"No you're not," she says easily. "You've got the hide of a rhinoceros, Boyd."

"Is that right? Well, maybe I don't want to talk to you after all, then."

"All right," she says casually.

Grace has got the upper hand and she knows it. He's normally so taciturn that when he tells her that he wants to talk to her, she automatically knows there's something burning inside him that he desperately needs to share with someone. He knows it, she knows it, and it boils down to one unpleasant fact – he's on a hiding to nothing lapsing into sullen silence. Stubborn as Boyd is, in a situation like this one, Grace can easily outwait him. Every single time. It's incredibly annoying. Scowling, he says, "Do you want to hear what I've got to say, or not?"

Quite blatantly, she pretends to think about it. "Well…"

Not even aware of doing so, Boyd grinds his teeth. There are very few people in the world who can get under his skin as quickly and easily as Grace Foley. Sometimes he wonders why he seems to have so little defence against her, but the inevitable answer always irritates him just as much as the question itself. He's fond of her. He far fonder of her than is good for him and accordingly he allows her to take the kind of liberties no-one else would ever dare attempt. That she also drives him to distraction with her complex theories and her inability to say anything quickly and simply is a given. She is, after all, a psychologist, and he suspects that's just the nature of the beast.

He says, "Do you remember me telling you about that girl I kept seeing?"

"Stress-induced hallucinations, Boyd."

"Oh, fine. If you're not going to take this seriously…"

Grace relents, says, "Go on, then. Tell me."

So he does.

-oOo-

"Joshua," Grace says quietly as she refills both their glasses, "is not Luke."

"Oh, for God's sake," Boyd replies irritably. "I know that. Don't start spouting psychological mumbo-jumbo at me. I'm not looking for a substitute."

"Are you sure?"

"He's my bloody _grandson_, Grace. Why can't you just be happy for me?"

"I am happy for you," she says, but there's a weary sort of note in her voice. "But I'm also very concerned for you. You're still grieving, Boyd. It hasn't been six months yet. Don't you understand what you're doing?"

Unable to sit still any longer, Boyd gets abruptly to his feet and starts to pace around his office. "The kid's my own flesh and blood. Whether you like it or not."

"It's nothing to do with me."

"Damned right it's not. I told you as a friend, and I rather naïvely thought you'd be pleased for me – as a friend."

"That's not fair. All I'm trying to say is – "

"I know what you're trying to say," he snaps at her. "My son's dead, Grace, and he's not coming back. You think I don't think about that every minute of every day? Joshua isn't some kind of surrogate, some sort of replacement. He's Luke's son. A part of Luke that isn't lying rotting in the ground."

"Boyd…"

"Stop looking at this as a bloody psychologist, will you? He's my grandson. Don't you think I've got a right to be interested in him, in his welfare?"

"Of course, but the keyword is _grandson_. He's not your child. You don't have parental responsibility for him."

"I don't _want_ parental responsibility for him. Jesus, why are you turning this into something it's not? Amy's doing a damned good job from what I can see, but she's on her own. Luke can't provide any kind of support, can he? So it's up to me."

"I just think…"

"Oh, I'm not listening to any more of this," Boyd says sharply. "If you can't be happy for me, then keep your bloody mouth shut. I don't want to hear any more psychological bollocks about my relationship with Joshua. Clear?"

"Quite clear," Grace says coldly.

"Good."

-oOo-

It takes a few days, but the sudden renewed frost between them slowly thaws, as it always eventually does. Boyd knows things are all right between them when Grace joins him at the vending machine in the corridor and gently buffets him with her shoulder. He looks down at her and she looks calmly back. Gruffly, he thrusts his just-retrieved plastic cup at her, "Here, have this one."

"Thanks," Grace says simply. "Jigsaw-man was a Polish migrant."

"Mm."

There's a delicate sort of pause. "So when can I meet him?"

"Jigsaw-man? You're too late, I'm afraid, Grace. By about five years."

Her exasperated sigh is quite deliberate. "Joshua."

"You any good at putting up curtains?"

"I've been known to attempt it on the odd occasion."

Boyd gives her a quick, sly grin. "Then I have a great weekend planned for you, Doctor."

-oOo-

"I like her," is Amy's laconic verdict after several hours of the kind of mind-numbing domesticity absolutely guaranteed to put Boyd into a dark, irritable mood.

"I'm so pleased," he says sardonically, arms full of miscellaneous toys, clothing and bedding. "Why are you keeping all this crap? I told you I'd pay for new stuff."

"Yeah, and I told you to fuck off. Why aren't you two together?"

He looks at her, startled. "What?"

"You and Grace. You like each other, don't you? You could be a toyboy, Pete."

"Funny."

She follows him into the small room that has been designated as Joshua's bedroom, and in a far more sober tone she asks, "Have you spoken to Luke's mother yet?"

He hasn't. It's starting to weigh heavily on him, but so far he's managed to find endless spurious reasons not to make the call. Not looking at Amy, Boyd says, "No. But I will."

"What are you scared of? Losing Joshua the way you lost Luke?"

She's uncomfortably close to the mark. Boyd says, "You don't know Mary. You don't know how good she is at manipulating situations to her advantage."

"I know she ran off with her best mate's brother and took Luke with her."

Boyd snorts. "I think you'll find she has a completely different perception of what actually happened."

"Maybe, but I know what Luke told me."

"Luke… didn't like either of us very much. With good reason, probably. But he was only six when Mary left me. Kid that age doesn't really have a clue what's going on."

"Yeah, well Josh's only two and a half, but he knows his dad's never coming back. Just like he knows you're his granddad. Luke understood far more than you realised."

"Luke understood he had a father who never came home from work until he was in bed, and a mother who just couldn't cope with it."

"Bollocks," Amy says succinctly. "Just call her, will you? I don't care if you hate each other's guts – this is about Josh, not who did what to who back in the mists of time."

Boyd looks heavenwards. Summoning patience, he says, "You sound just like Grace."

Amy smirks at him. "I bet she'll kick your arse about it, too, if I tell her."

He has no doubt that she's absolutely right. "I'll do it, all right?"

"This week?"

"This week. Now can we please go and prise Josh away from Grace before she gets any ideas about becoming a surrogate grandmother…?"

-oOo-

In fact, the moment he walks back into the small living room with its piles of cardboard boxes and its haphazardly-dumped furniture, Boyd suspects that particular battle is already lost. He can see it instantly in the way Grace is talking softly to the little boy on her lap. It amuses him, and it touches him, too. She looks up as she hears him enter the room, and for a moment her expression is so open and so artlessly happy that he has no idea how to react to it. To Joshua, she says, "Look, it's grumpy granddad."

The gentle needling backfires on her, however, as Joshua immediately wriggles free and runs across the room, arms open in an unmistakable gesture of solicitation. For a moment Boyd is thrown back years in time to the early, innocent days of fatherhood before everything went so spectacularly wrong. It could be Luke running towards him, the son looks so much like the father, but he knows it's not. It doesn't occur to him not to scoop the boy up into his arms and swing him round. Boyd is a father. Boyd knows he will always be a father. A father without a son, maybe, but a father nonetheless. He's well aware of the way Grace is looking at him, but he chooses to ignore it. For a moment everything in his life seems to be in perfect equilibrium and he is genuinely happy.

From behind him, Amy's voice says, "You're so bloody soft."

"He is," Grace agrees with a smile, standing up. "But don't tell anyone."

In the future, Boyd will understand that this is the moment when everything changes for him forever. This is the moment when he ceases to feel so completely alone and rejected by the world. The moment, in fact, when he realises that despite everything he still has a family.

_- the end -_


End file.
